These Filthy Hands
by AngelicPyro
Summary: What happens when a ghost you created nearly 20 years ago comes back to haunt you? What if you can't make it go away? What do you do? Disturbing story


**Warning: Graphic shit. Don't read if you can't handle it.**

_A little girl, no older than nine, stood hidden in the shadows, watching a horrible scene unfold, her large dark eyes glowing oddly. A large man hovered over her brother, the person she idolized, who was tied to a chair. A knife was dragged slowly over random body parts, and despite her lack of years, she knew they were trying to get information. Blood dripped to a slow rythym on the floor, a beat she would never forget. A second man hovered in the corner, only his face completely visible. While he never participated in the torture, he watched, never interfering and stopping it. His face would haunt the little girl until her dying day, she just knew it. Her eyes widened, glowing even more as she saw the torturer lift his knife, before bringing it swiftly down, plunging it into her brother's heart._

A young woman shoots up and out of her bed, the same dark eyes glowing in the same odd way. This nightmare haunted her, it had for many years now, but they'd become more frequent in the last few months. She knew why. While the man that had actually killed her brother had been sent to jail and was now awaiting the electric chair, the police had never found a shred of evidence supporting the tale of another man being there. But she knew what she'd seen. And she'd seen him again.

It had happened when she was 15. Ever since her brother's death, her parents had subtly but surely pushed her away, isolating her from the world. She didn't really mind. But one night, she'd been watching wrestling. It'd been a passion she and her brother had shared. They'd planned on becoming pros together.. she'd given up on that dream until that night. Until the night she saw the man in the shadows on her television.

She'd run and told her parents "The man in the shadows is on wrestling!" but they hadn't believed her. For her attempts at getting the proper justice, she'd spent 72 hours in the psychiatric unit of the local hospital. Every doctor had the same diagnosis.

"Sir, ma'am, your daughter witnessed the brutal slaying of your son. Her brain is attempting to cope by creating false memories, and tying them to something they'd once shared. It's normal, but you shouldn't encourage it."

No doctor had ever found anything wrong with her, other than the trauma caused by the event. She had no psychological problems, no mental illness. The only thing doctors didn't understand was why her brain hadn't repressed the memories. As traumatic as it had been, she shouldn't have been able to remember anything, let alone the small details. For instance, what exactly the man in the shadows had been wearing, how the killed hadn't been sweating, the smell of her brother's blood. What the doctors didn't know, however, was that she made herself remember. She refused to forget.

--

A few hours later, the same woman sat in the waiting room of a corporate building. Absently, she played with a yo-yo, waiting patiently for her name to be called. She knew she would probably be the final person, but that didn't bother her. Very little did. She watched many women go in, and leave looking mildly upset. They were all the same. Medium height, maybe 5'6, aided by heels. Bleached blonde hair. Fake boobs that looked bad, due to how far the skin had been stretched. Unnatural looking tan. The typical bimbo. The kind of girl the WWE had a habit of looking for. However, judging by the looks on their faces, they wanted something different for once.

"Amaya Vaile."

Her head snapped up as her name was called. She stood, absently stowing the yo-yo in the pocket of the jacket she was wearing. Though the other women had worn suits, with almost impossibly short skirts, Amaya had chosen to go with what she would normally wear. After all, what was the point of starting a job with a lie? She'd worn her favorite pair of jeans, which happened to be somewhat torn up, and the nicest blouse she owned. It'd been raining, so she'd grabbed a normal, gray jacket, and topped it all off with an old beat up pair of sneakers. She didn't look bad, exactly, but she wasn't as done up as everyone else either.

"Mr. McMahon will see you now," the receptionist said, looking amazingly offended at how Amaya was dressed. An amused smirk flitted across her face, before she headed down the hall towards her destination.

Amaya had begun preparing for this when she was 15. After being released from the looney bin, she'd joined a gym, getting herself in shape. She wasn't overly muscular, but she had just enough definition. She liked how she looked. At 18, she'd joined OVW. She trained there for a year and a half, before departing. She'd made somewhat of a name for herself on the independant circuit. She wasn't the most famous of people, but she wasn't really a nobody either. So, at 22 and getting ready to turn 23, Amaya Vaile stepped through the door, praying that she'd achieve the dream her brother had longed for so much. She knew he was watching her from his spot in heaven.

--

Shane and Vince McMahon sat on one side of a table, waiting for the latest and last applicant. They needed a new Diva, preferably one that could wrestle. Shane had so far covered the interviews, but Vince had decided to attend this one. They'd been after Amelia Vaile, stage name Pheonix, for nearly a year. He'd had people attempt to find her, without any luck. She was next to impossible to pin down. Shane had been the one handling it all, for the most part, so when he'd come across her name in a stack of hopefuls, he'd told his father.

Suddenly, the door opened. She poked her head in curiously, glancing around. Her dark eyes were a color that Shane couldn't decipher. She seemed mildly shocked as she calmly walked to the chair across from the two men and sat down. The father and son pair cast a glance over her. They'd known she'd be different than the others, but they hadn't expected this. She looked like she was getting ready to go beg on the streets, not come for an interview. Shane looked at his father, expecting indignation or anger, but the older man simply looked amused. Shane went back to examining the woman.

Her eyes were dark, infathomable, and bewitching. Shane, for the life of him, couldn't honestly say what color they were. All he knew is that they were dark, and seemed to hold all the answers to every question. Somewhat like the universe. She had long, blood red hair that framed her face. She was beautiful. Shane was easily one of the firsts to ever admit that most of the divas weren't 'beautiful' really. They had normal features that were even, and none of them had a problem flaunting their breasts, legs, or ass. That was why they got the label of hot, pretty, cute, whatever. Amaya was different. There was something about her. She was the type of girl that would make men stop and stare, even if she was walking down the street without showering, wearing her most horrible pair of sweatpants.

Vince coughed softly, and Shane suddenly remembered that he was supposed to be conducting an interview.

"My apologies. I got lost in thought. Now, I understand that you'd like to join the company?"

"Yes. I've wanted to since I was 8 years old."

Her voice was warm and rich. She sounded educated, though Shane had her history, and was sure she'd never even finished high school.

"What gave you this ambition?" he questioned, for once genuinely curious. Most women answered something about the glamour and the fans, which was never true. They were after the money, and the wrestlers that carried it.

"It was my brother's dream. He chose to share it with me," she answered. She'd always spoken directly to him, her eyes focused on him, and nowhere else. It was bold of her.

"Was?"

"Yes. He died when I was 8.. I gave up on it until I was 15."

"I'm very sorry for your loss. Now, what makes you think you're qualified?"

"Oh, that one's easy. I wrestle better than the vast majority of your divas. I mean, you have what? Three women that can genuinely wrestle? Trish, Victoria, and that Mickie James person. The rest of them are eye candy that can, by some odd coincidence, pull off a few wrestling moves that dazzle the male fans, which is your major demograhic, because the moves normally involve them showing a lot of cleavage. Does that answer your question, Mr. McMahon?"

"Yes, it does. Welcome to the company!" Vince cut in. Shane just stared at her, dumbstruck. She had more balls than most of the male superstars.

"Thank you," she said, smiling brightly.

"We'll draw up a contract for you tomorrow. Anything inparticular you want in there?"

"Yes. I refuse to do bra and panty matches. I want it stated in my contract, or I won't sign. You can send it to my lawyer, when you're finished. I want him to look over it, so I can make sure I'm not getting screwed majorly," she said, that brilliant smile on her face. She could sugar coat poison and feed it to you without any problem. Shane, who had never feared any woman other than his mother, all of a sudden had a shiver run down his spine. She was more dangerous than possibly anyone realized. But, by the time he realized it, his father was set in his choice, and Amaya was sliding a piece of paper with her lawyer's information on it across the table. She would be their next Diva by this time tomorrow.

**All righty. Well, hi. I have a feeling there are people that are going to kill me, because I hardly update my other story as is, and here I am writing another one! Um, review, please. I promise I will always warn you if there will be something possibly disturbing, which there will be a lot of most likely. Umm.. I think that's about it. Please don't hurt me because I don't update regularly! I promise I will as soon as I can!**


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